


Fight Off the Light Tonight (Stay With Me)

by ambitiousbutrubbish



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, and everyone else but I'm not going to just list them all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-08-10 02:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16461308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitiousbutrubbish/pseuds/ambitiousbutrubbish
Summary: He wasn’t always Flint. Once, he was in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is about a 60/40% character study to plot ratio, which is honestly pretty damn good for me. 65/35%, maybe.

James had not expected Lord Hamilton to be somewhat of a political radical. If anything, his position in society demands that he not be. James had done his own research before he took the job as a security consultant, but all of his internet search history had been so easy to access and so bland - TV reviews, thesaurus checks, newspaper subscriptions, porn searches that James had had the courtesy not to actually look at - that he hadn’t felt the need to really look any deeper. Foolish, honestly. He’s been out of the military for too long. 

The only thing of note he’d found in his initial research had been a search for James’ own name, so perhaps his appointment had not been so random after all. 

At first glance, Lord Hamilton had been exactly as James had thought he would be; tall, fair-haired and handsome in a way that people born into money unfairly seemed to be. He was solidly built, but clearly not trained to take advantage of the fact. And he carried himself well, but somehow looked unassuming, his face kind. He smiled in a way that made James feel like he was inviting him to share in a joke, and even as he dismissed him to the “harmless” corner of his mind, James liked him immediately. 

And then he started to talk. There was no reservedness in his words, no conservatism or placations. James has seen the rich and the performative link to articles and repeat soundbites ad nauseam in interviews; it’s been a long time since he’s seen someone with a _plan_ , and the platform to push for it. He talks about minimum wages for all, including the unemployed. About helping to naturalise migrants and hiring quotas for the marginalised. It’s a pipe dream, James knows; and Lord Hamilton has been raised in an environment where “fairness” can be expected, and not one where the people he speaks about grew up. But James can see it in his eyes. He really _believes_ that he can help, that he can change the laws of the land for the better. And James finds _himself_ believing that Lord Hamilton really will try.

When James gets back to his crappy little apartment he rescues his laptop from under the pile of clothes he’d thrown on top of it that morning and pulls up the screen he had been using for his snooping the day before. It doesn’t take much digging to find encrypted files and internet searches on Lord Hamilton’s own computer, and he’s about to get to work opening them when he pauses. He _liked_ Lord Hamilton. It feels rude and invasive to steal his information. He decides to let things fall as they may.

********************

After some deliberation, James decides he could probably pass Lord Hamilton off as some sort of middle manager type, and he invites him to visit a factory that he knows is being shut down. It’s a little unfair to just drop him in the deep end, but he needs to see how real people live. 

He doesn’t tell Lord Hamilton where he’s taking him, and the man follows along with no questions. His instinct to assume the best of people is going to get him in trouble some day James is sure, but it’s strangely satisfying. They arrive just as the factory is closing down for the day, the workers trudging out the door with letters crumpled up in their fists. A few spit on the pavement or the door as they leave. One of the last men to leave is being escorted by police, his wrists in cuffs, the knuckles on his right hand bloodied. It’s an injury James knows all too well, and his own hand prickles in sympathy. 

“What’s going on?” Lord Hamilton murmurs, and he’s tall enough that he has to bend slightly to be close enough to his ear for James to hear him. James can feel his body move beside him, and his cheek where Lord Hamilton’s breath ghosts over it is almost uncomfortably warm, despite there being so little of it. James is forced to swallow hard before answering. 

“The factory is downsizing.” he replies, equally quiet. He turns to follow the crowd. “Come on.” And he is not a very tactile person, but he still has to fight the urge to grab Lord Hamilton’s arm and lead him along. He’s not entirely sure what’s come over him lately, but perhaps he’s just been alone for too long. 

The pilgrimage from the factory ends up a a pub two blocks away. James has never been inside, but he knows the type - where dreams go to drown in cheap beer, and the customers hide from their lives. Lord Hamilton, it appears, also knows the type of pub, and he doesn’t hesitate going inside. James can just imagine a bunch of Eton boys, thinking visiting a working class pub is the height of adventure. 

He follows him inside, and they take a seat at one of the back booths. There’s not a lot of room, and Lord Hamilton is tall. James has to go to great pains to make sure their legs don’t touch under the table. Lord Hamilton doesn’t appear to notice. He’s probably never had to notice a casual touch in his life. He turns away from the crowd at the bar to look at James. “I’m aware that our economy is failing people.” He starts, leaning forward so he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. “What exactly us the point of this excursion?”

His gaze is steady and James finds it strangely difficult to meet his eyes, so he doesn’t turn away from the bar. “Just listen.” He doesn’t have to search father than the next booth over to hear what he was expecting; the laid-off workers blaming immigration for their redundancy, the calls to close the borders and cancel visas and deport people back to their country of origin. He can see the exact moment that Lord Hamilton hears it too, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “Everyone needs someone to punch down at.” James says. “When you try to take that away from them, they’re going to resent you. And they won’t vote for you, because you’ll make them feel bad about themselves. People want their politicians to tell them that their prejudices are right.” 

Lord Hamilton’s entire face screws up to meet his brows in their frown, and he looks disappointed. “I believe that the Rolling Stones were somewhat prophets in that area.” He says, and stands without explaining what the hell he is on about. James watches him head straight for the bar and feels a little bad about crushing his dreams with reality, but someone needs to save him from himself. He pauses when he gets to the bar, and turns to face the entire pub. “Drinks are on me.” And the whole room cheers. 

Men rush to the bar. Most appear to simply be quick to collect on his offer before it is taken away, but a few stop to speak to Lord Hamilton. In a short while, he is surrounded by people, who all appear eager to talk to him and share their stories. James can’t hear his replies, but from the way the other men smile and draw closer, he can only assume that Lord Hamilton is happy to listen and asking all the right questions. 

It’s like nothing James has ever seen from a politician before, and utterly sincere. He can feel a phantom pain in his chest, just under his ribs, although whether it is caused by either worry or admiration he cannot say. He steps outside and take a few gasping breathes of cool air, trying to freeze it. A black car with tinted windows pulls up next to the curb behind him, the window winding down to reveal a smiling woman.

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” She says, and James feels himself nod without really deciding to. He turns away to look back through the window. He can see Lord Hamilton tip his head back with laughter, and put his hand on the shoulder of the man he is talking to. James blinks and focuses on his own reflection in the glass.

“Sure.” He says, keeping his voice as flat as possible. “The only question is; what?”

The woman laughs, loudly and without a hint of self-consciousness. James turns back to look at her, and sees her properly for the first time. She’s beautiful, in an understated way. Under the wrong lighting, he can imagine that someone looking to undermine her self-confidence could even call her plain. But they would be wrong, and her smile is so charming and lovely that James can’t help but echo it. 

She looks passed him to Lord Hamilton, and the look on her face is one of such fondness that James can only assume that she is his wife. “I remember the first time I met Thomas.” She says, and that same affection is so obvious in her words. “We were children, and he refused to apologise for kicking one of the Lords Temporal in the shin because the man was rude to a waiter. His father berated him in front of almost 30 members of parliament and their families, but Thomas was so righteous and stubborn even then.” She looks back at James, an her gaze is steady and almost strangely challenging. “I was only young, but I believe that I made my decision to marry him one day on that very night.”

James doesn’t really know what she expects him to say to that, and Lady Hamilton takes pity on his tongue-tied state. “I’m Miranda.” She says, and leans out the car window with her hand outstretched. 

“James McGraw.” He replies as he takes it. Her hand is soft, but her handshake is firm.

“It’s nice to meet you, James.” She says. “Won’t you join me in the car to wait for my husband? It’s likely he will be some time, but you and I can get to know each other.”

James looks behind himself and back through the window of the pub. Her entire demeanour suddenly seems uncomfortably challenging. “I don’t want to leave Lord Hamilton alone. Won’t he think it odd if I’m no longer inside?”

Miranda laughs again, and James looks back at her. Her smile changes everything about her. She still looks like she’s about to ambush him, but somehow in a friendly way. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s certainly not that you’re not a diverting presence.” Here she pauses, and James shifts a little under her gaze. “But Thomas will be too busy trying to sell everyone in that room his ideas to even notice that you’re not there.” 

James risks a quick look back through the window and sees Lord Hamilton lean in towards the man he is speaking to, his eyes bright. He whips his head around to face forward again. Miranda’s smile has morphed into more of a smirk, but he can’t go back inside right now. And he can’t very well stand and wait on the curb while she’s right there. “If you’re sure.” He says, and he takes a deep breath before walking around to the other side of the car.

********************

A month passes, and James finds himself at one of the pubs that was popular back in his navy days. He hasn’t been here since he finished his service, but he recognises the posture of the men standing around the bar and figures that he can assume that they still cater mainly to the military. No one looks at him when he comes through the door, and it makes him feel strangely invisible and adrift. Thomas - and he insists on being called Thomas - engages him almost every minute they spend in the same room. He asks for his opinions and shares his own, and even when they’re not talking, James can somehow sense that Thomas is aware that they’re sharing space. It makes him feel _solid_ , and without eyes on him now, James feels some relief in his anonymity. But mostly he feels unsteady, _unreal_. Off-kilter in an entirely different way to the way that Thomas makes him feel off-kilter. 

He thought him naïve when they first met, and perhaps he is. Thomas can’t help but believe that the laws and customs that have protected him can be extended to everyone else in the country, and that people fundamentally want fairness for all. James doesn’t believe that that is the case, but Thomas has an infectious idealism, and James finds himself getting easily carried away; his thoughts fracturing off into actual _opinions_. In his previous positions - both in the military and outside - he has been expected to just do what he was told or risk the lives of everyone around him. But Thomas asks him questions and he _listens_ to him when he answers, and sometimes he changes his policies and talking points when James suggests it. For the first time in his life, James is actually thinking about his politics, and sitting down and reading policy plans.

Thomas not like anyone James has ever known. In the past, he’s found minor nobility to insist on their titles as a shabby front for their own insecurities. Reminders that he is titled just make Thomas roll his eyes. He’s thinking about that look, staring down into his glass and remembering the way that one side of Thomas’ mouth tilts up _just so_ when he thinks that James is being ridiculous, and he doesn’t notice the man slipping onto the stool beside him before it’s too late to make a retreat that would not be obvious. 

“Haven’t seen you in here for a while.” The man says, and James grunts and tries to surreptitiously look over at him. He vaguely recognises him as someone who joined the navy in his year, but didn’t rise up through the ranks as quickly as he did. “I heard you’re working security for Thomas Hamilton. There’s got to be some good perks to that job.”

James doesn’t ask how he knows about his work. He’s not stupid enough to not assume that his ex-employers are keeping an eye on him. But he’s drawn into conversation all the same. “What do you mean?”

The man smirks, and not in the pleasant way that James had been remembering before he was interrupted. He leans in closer. “I heard that Lord Hamilton is gay. That he’s a _fag_. And that he whores out his wife to people he likes and for political gain.”

James honestly doesn’t remember the next minute, but he does eventually register two sets of hands locked around his elbows and pulling him back with his arms behind him. His knuckles hurt, and the man who had been seated next to him is even less recognisable than before, lying on the floor with his face bloodied and his nose clearly broken, one eye already swollen shut. The hands holding him back manoeuvre and shove him until he’s out the door, and it’s slammed shut behind him.

For a moment, James considers forcing his way back inside and finishing what he started. It’s like a siren song, the call to a good old-fashioned brawl. Instead, he tears himself away from the entrance and starts down the street. He wanders aimlessly for a few minutes to clear his head, and fairly soon he starts to recognise the buildings he passes. Two blocks more and he finds himself at the Hamilton’s front door. It’s late, but it’s not too late, and besides that he feels oddly compelled to knock and explain himself to Thomas. He does’t give himself time to think about it, and he’s still shaking out the pain in his hand from knocking when Thomas answers. He takes one look at James’ face, and James doesn’t know exactly what he sees in his expression, but Thomas invites him inside. 

He has a first aid kit in the bathroom, because of course he and Miranda have their lives together enough to have an actual first aid kit in a box and everything. James takes a seat on the lid of the toilet while Thomas riffles through the box and pulls out the antiseptic. “What happened?” Thomas asks, just as he dabs his knuckles with antiseptic, and James is grateful for the sharp sting because it gives him an excuse to flinch and look away.

“I don’t really want to tell you.” He says, and Thomas doesn’t tut at him, but he can somehow _feel_ the space in the air where the click should be.

“Please do anyway.” Thomas replies, and James looks up again to see Thomas looming over him, his eyes concerned, and he can’t deny him.

“I went to a navy bar.” James starts, and Thomas leans back against the sink behind him, watching carefully, his arms crossed. It gives him more room to breathe, and the story comes spilling out. “There was a guy there. Someone I served with, but I don’t remember his name. Somehow he had heard that I was working for you.” He pauses again, and his gaze slides away off Thomas’ face and focuses on a point next to his ear where he can see his own features reflected back at him in the mirror. He looks pale, and he swallows hard. “He called you a fag.”

Thomas doesn’t flinch, not like James had. When he risks a glance back at his face, it is as stoney as it had been when James had started explaining himself. “A crude term true, but not one I haven’t heard before.” Thomas says, and his voice is as steady as the rest of him. “As I’m sure you have as well–“ the blood rushes to his ears so fast and so loud at the implication that could be buried in that simple comment that James almost doesn’t hear him finish it “–bandied about in the military.”

“Of course.” James replies, although it comes out as little more than a murmur. He coughs to clear his suddenly dry throat. He wishes he could think of a pretty way to say what he has to say. He’s good with words, it has always been his greatest strength as a leader, but he can’t find a way to put delicately something that makes him so furious. “He also said that you whore out Miranda for your politics.” 

_That_ gets a reaction. Thomas pushes himself abruptly up from his slouch and takes a couple of pacing steps in both directions, his lips curled in disgust. "How dare they?” He spits out and then stops, takes a calming breath. “It’s true enough that Miranda has relationships with other men, but to suggest that they are anything other than consensual and that I am forcing her into them for _political capital_ …” James’ thoughts have been racing tying to stay ahead of the conversation, but they trip and stumble over that particular revelation. Thomas does not appear to have registered his surprise. He sighs, and makes his way back to slump against the sink. 

“I suppose it’s not entirely inaccurate.” He says, and James is on his feet before he even really registers standing up. He doesn’t know what he wants to say - to protest, to reassure, to yell and demand answers - but Thomas holds up a hand and he doesn’t get the chance to find out. "No, James. Perhaps not in the way that your ex-colleague was suggesting, but…” He pauses to run his hand through his hair. “Miranda and I, we have a marriage of great love, but not of desire.” There’s a part of Thomas’ hair near the front sticking up at an odd angle from where he ruffled it, and completely out of his depth with the conversation James fixates on that to try and find some solid ground. 

“James,” Thomas says and sighs again. “I feel that I must be completely frank with you.” There’s a part of James that wants to stop him, to keep their interaction strictly professional. But Thomas fascinates him, as simultaneously contradictory and self-assured as he is, and he wants to know everything about him even more. “I’m gay. Or at least, close enough for it to not really matter. Miranda and I do love each other, do not doubt that. But we married because it would stop me being forced to be a one-issue politician, and get her family to stop pressuring her. So in a way I suppose I do use her, though I don't ask or expect her to be exclusive to me.”

James has been in battle simulations and trained to throw himself in front of a bullet should need be, and he has never felt so overwhelmed and out of his depth in his life. “Why the secret?” He asks. “People don’t care anymore.”

Thomas huffs a laugh. “They care when it comes to their politicians.” The lop-sided smile on his face has more than a touch of bitterness. “Besides, I think we both know that some people still care very much.” There is something so heavy and _knowing_ in his voice, and James doesn’t understand it at all, but even so he has to look away. 

His gaze flicks towards the ground, but it gets distracted half way down when he notices that Thomas is dressed more casually than he has ever seen him, a plain t-shirt in place of long sleeves and buttons. His arms are remarkably pale, but that’s not what catches his attention. When James was a kid, Hennessey had accidentally dropped a lit cigarette on his own leg. He remembers it well, because he’s sure that he learnt every swear word he knew from the age of eight probably up until he joined the navy in that moment. The burn hadn’t scarred because Hennessey had looked after it diligently, but James remembers the little painfully red, perfectly circular mark it had left behind. The five scars on Thomas’ arms - three in a small triangle just below the inside of the elbow on the right, and two seemingly random on the left - are bigger than the one from the cigarette and they look old, but they’re still an angry red.

White hot anger shoots like a spear through James’ thoughts, and he tightens his hands into fists. This time Thomas _does_ tut when the stretch causes his knuckles to start bleeding again.

********************

In navy intelligence, James had been expected to take risks. The military exists on rules and order, but stealing secrets means having to dance around them just a little. Taking a calculated risk; it’s not a foreign concept to him.

But Thomas makes him reckless. He makes him forget about the rules and the consequences. He makes him impulsive. He makes him feel _safe_ , with his money and his influence, but also with his attention and his encouragement. He feels like if he shoots for the moon and misses, Thomas will catch him. 

When he's with him, it’s like he’s stepped into a world where the rules don’t matter. And not always metaphorically. Thomas moves in the kinds of circles that he has never been allowed to be involved in, except as an oddity or a charity case. He takes him to meetings and rallies where people talk about impossible high-minded ideals as if they can make them reality. Maybe they even believe they can, so James does his best to not let his incredulousness show. He’s been disciplined for less in the past. 

Usually he walks back to his apartment from these gatherings, but eventually Thomas’ insisting wins out and James allows him to drive him home. To be totally honest, he’d wanted to say yes the first night Thomas offered, but it hadn’t seemed proper. By the time he figured out that Thomas truly didn’t mean to stand on propriety he was too late to change his mind. So he had had to wait for a night that he was raining heavily, and the chance had taken surprisingly long to come about. 

But eventually it does, and James finds himself siting in the passenger’s seat of Thomas’ car. James has never had much of an appreciation for cars. Even as a kid he always preferred ships, because they were all Hennessey talked about. He probably would never have even learnt to drive if the navy didn’t consider it a requirement. But even despite his lack of knowledge, he can tell Thomas’ car is _nice_. Since reentering civilian life, James has been using public transport and taxis to get around. He hadn’t realised cars could have so many buttons. If he reached across the distance between Thomas and himself he could probably hit three or four with his arm without meaning to. He’s careful to keep his hands in his lap.

Thomas smiles at him from the driver’s seat. “How have you been finding these meetings, James?”

James thinks about it for a moment. “Interesting.” He settles on.

Thomas laughs a little. “Don’t hold back on my account” He says. “I want to know what you think of the people who want to run your country.”

James lets himself relax. “I don’t think they’ve spoken to anyone who makes less than 100 grand a year in their lives.” He replies, and Thomas lets out a short snort that he tries to cover by switching on the ignition. James smirks. “I’m not sure they understand that you can’t buy your way out of poverty.”

Thomas hums softly, and allows that to hang in the air for a moment. The car radio is playing something, but the volume is down so low that James can’t really make sense of it.”You should tell them.” Thomas says, eventually.

“What?”

“You should tell them that.” He repeats. “Sometimes when you’re born into money, it’s shockingly easy to forget that not everyone was. I don’t mean for you to becomes some kind of morality pet of course, but some of them could use the reminder.”

James shrugs as nonchalantly at that as he can manage, but he does mean to go through with it. And then three weeks pass and he still hasn’t said anything. Thomas asks for his opinions when he drives him home after every meeting, complements his thoughts and takes them on board, but James can't quite bring himself to blurt them out to anyone but Thomas. It isn’t _proper_. Thomas may not be interested in ceremony, but James can’t imagine that it’s the same for all of the others. It isn’t the same for _him_.

Until one day, one of the rich idiots says something about lowering the minimum wage to encourage workers to find better jobs, and James can’t hold it in any longer. He scoffs, in a way that he definitely learnt from Thomas. Which is embarrassing because Thomas clearly noticed, if the way he twitches beside him is any indication. 

And Thomas wasn’t the only one to hear it. Maybe not the inflection as such, but the scoff. Every eye in the room is suddenly on him. The man who had been speaking raises his eyebrows at him, and James is emboldened by the challenge in his gaze. He straightens up in his chair. “Did you have something to say?” The man asks.

James is halfway up and onto his feet before he realises he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to stand to speak. Instead he ends up in a sort of awkward squat, his knees still bent and his palms resting on the table in front of him. It’s hell on his calves already, and he used to be much fitter than this. It’s almost enough to send him back down into his seat and try to let the moment pass. But Thomas gives his leg a gentle nudge with his foot under the table, and it’s enough of a push to get him to run off the cliff. “Have you ever worked for minimum wage in your life?” And then he kind of loses track of what he’s saying, but he’s gone over it so many times in the car with Thomas that it all flows out so easily. Like he really is in freefall.

When he finishes he stops abruptly, and realises that he’s breathing hard and fast, the only sound in the otherwise shocked room. He feels his heart thumping in his chest, and he knows he aught to feel awkward with everyone’s eyes on him and he does, but it’s also _exhilarating_ , knowing everyone is paying attention to _him_ , listening to what _he_ has to say.

After a moment, Thomas claps his hands together and stands. “And on that stark reminder of how far we still have to come, I think this meeting is over.” He says. His voice is cheery, but James is too nervous to look over at him and see if it’s all forced. "Let it stew for a while, and hopefully we’ll all come back a little wiser.” He claps James on the shoulder at that, and James is startled enough to look over involuntarily. Thomas is visibly _delighted_ , and James’ knees nearly give out with the relief of it. 

Everyone else shuffles out of the room; individually and in small groups and they all avoid James’ eye. Everyone else but the man James had interrupted. He stands and watches as everyone else files out, and James hardly notices until Thomas takes his hand off his shoulder and makes his way over to him. James barely misses knocking his hip against the table as he moves around to join him. 

“James, this is Peter Ashe.” Thomas starts, and Peter holds out his hand to shake. “Peter, this is James McGraw. He’s helping me out with my online security, or something like that.”

They shake hands as Peter chokes out a laugh. “Seems to me he’s helping you become an even bigger pain up the conservative’s arse.” He says, and he smiles but he stays looking at James. “Why don’t you tell me some more?”

********************

There’s always been some strange tension in the Hamilton household when James visits. Like somehow the air is thicker, or the spaces are tighter, or the universe is just waiting for the penny to drop. The only place he feels entirely at ease is in Thomas’ office, the curtains drawn and the two of them working on a policy proposal. When they’re out in the house it feels like anyone could look in and see them. James doesn’t know why that bothers him, but it does. It makes him uncomfortable, twitchy. Like someone is prying into his private life. 

Sometimes James has to take short breaks to walk through each of the rooms just to find a place to breath. Sometimes, he comes across Miranda. She’s almost always reading, books he’s never heard of with bright, illustrated covers. She always puts them away when she sees him and strikes up a conversation, but from what he can tell, more than a few of them have pictures of dragons on the front. It’s not what he expected from her, but almost nothing about Miranda is. 

Thomas is incredibly charismatic. James felt drawn to him the moment he met him, and he sees the same in almost everyone Thomas speaks to. If he were James’ commander in the navy, he would have followed him into battle. But even so, Miranda is the most charming person he has ever met. She smiles with her whole face, her nose crinkled, her eyes bright and alive. She leans in whenever she talks, inviting intimacy into the space between them. And she touches him all the time; glancing, casual brushes when she’s walking passed, more deliberate taps when she wants his attention. Sometimes she grabs his arm or his shoulder or his hand when she’s talking to him, and James leans into every one like he’s never been touched before, her grip like a brand on his skin.

He sleeps with her in the end because she is charming, and wonderful, and he is sure that in doing so the house will finally breathe out.

********************

James has a standing lunch appointment with Hennessey on the second Tuesday of every month. Barring deployment, they have never missed once since the Admiral all but adopted him as a child. Hennessey is big on routine and predictability. They avoid the subject of James’ employment as a rule. James knows how much Hennessey wants him to come back into the fold, just as much as he knows that he could never go back to the way that the navy demanded that he live his life. Especially not now that he has tasted true freedom. So they do not discuss it, but James can’t hide how _happy_ he is, and Hennessey can’t not see it. 

“I take it that you are enjoying your current position?” He asks, and James puts down his knife.

“I’m certainly learning a lot.” He replies slowly. When James left the navy, Hennessey had told him that what he wanted most for James was for him to be happy. James believes it, but he is sure that Hennessey would love for him to follow in his footsteps. He doesn’t want it to seem like he is ungrateful for anything.

“You like him.” Hennessey says, and James feels all of the blood rush from his face and his stomach drop, and he doesn’t understand why. It’s not a crime to appreciate someone’s company, but he feels strangely like it is. He nods stiffly. There’s no point denying it - Hennessey has always known when he was lying. “Good. You should like your employer.” James doesn’t relax, tightens his hold on his fork. He can feel Hennessey trying to _lead_ the conversation somewhere, but he doesn’t want to have it and he won’t encourage it.

After a minute of tense silence, Hennessey continues. “You must forgive me James, but you are too eager to please the people that you admire.” He pauses for a moment, and the blood rushes _back_ into James’ face. It’s true enough, but it’s also embarrassing and he had hoped Hennessey had never noticed. He also can’t help but wonder what it is that Hessessey has been hearing to make him feel it necessary to bring it up. The thought that people have been gossiping about him and Thomas makes him feel strangely hot and cold all over. He has nothing to hide there, but he feels _protective_ of every interaction they have, and having other people talk about them is uncomfortable. “I only hope that Lord Hamilton is not taking advantage of you.”

And _that_ is so patently ridiculous that James’ embarrassment melts instantly away, and he lets out a surprised laugh. “Thomas is a good man.” He says in return, and he’s not even surprised to find that he genuinely means it. 

********************

He always thought it was a stupid distinction to make, but it feels more like he’s working _with_ Thomas than _for_ him. He doesn’t bring it up because he’s pretty sure that Thomas would _agree_ with him, and he doesn’t need two people making him feel like he has his head in the clouds. So he doesn’t bring it up, but soon he is spending most of the day in Thomas’ office, heads in books or hunched over laptops or just talking through Thomas’ speeches and policies. It’s not what James was hired to do, but it doesn’t matter because it really _means_ something. Besides, it makes sense that it’s easier to to see what part of Thomas’ life needs securing if he’s almost always with him. 

More than once he’s nodded off there at the desk and Thomas has kept working around him. He’s woken to see Thomas reading quietly opposite him, or pacing back and forth with socked feet and whispering to himself to keep the volume down. He never seems to _stop_ working, and James can’t help but stare. It’s admiration, he supposes. Or maybe it’s envy. Thomas always moves so smoothly, and James as never been able to shed the navy from his bones. There is no trace of a march in the way Thomas sometimes drags his feet when he moves across the room, and when he sits back down again he slouches in the chair, his legs spread wide under the desk and one hand tapping at his laptop or turing the pages of a book, while with the other he runs his thumb across his lower lip in a way that appears to mean he’s thinking. 

At times, James thinks he holds his own back so ramrod straight to compensate. He tells himself that he watches Thomas so closely, keeps at least one eye on his every move while they’re together, so that he can anticipate how he will react in an emergency situation if the time ever comes. That he notes the way that Thomas ruffles his hair and smirks when he thinks of a particularly good point is just supplementary information. 

When Thomas is free from his public responsibilities he rarely leaves his office, and James has little desire to venture outside either. There’s a faint niggle in the back his brain about the fitness routine he’s tried to maintain so diligently even after leaving the navy, but it’s drowned out convincingly by the thought that the work he’s helping with here _matters_. 

Miranda spends her days out of the house doing charity work or weeding the garden out the back of the house. She grows a fairly large collection of fruits and vegetables for some community initiative or another. Sometime James and Thomas will join her when it comes to their attention that they should get some fresh air, and she always shoos them away in frustration after a few minutes. 

More often they will see her when she knocks on the office door to remind them to eat. Less often, she will do the same to remind them to _sleep_ , and James will follow her back to her bedroom to do things that are emphatically _not_ sleeping. Though the sleep does come eventually. On those days they usually wake late to find that Thomas has bought them breakfast from a bakery down the street and shut himself in his office. The first time it had happened James was afraid that he had upset Thomas in some way, but he had soon realised that he had simply wanted to give the two of them some time alone. And it was just _breathtaking_ , to know that someone would be considerate of him like that. 

Miranda sits far closer beside him than the large dining room table requires and asks about his work, and James hadn’t realised how _lonely_ he had been before now.

********************

The video of him telling off Alfred Hamilton goes viral before James even makes it back to his apartment after the interview. He watches it on his phone through slatted fingers, his head in his hands. The James in the video is as pink-cheeked in indignation as he is white-faced with worry now. 

And it had been such a simple job - accompany the Earl to an interview and make sure no one asked him an unapproved question. Technically speaking, James was employed by Alfred. Thomas may have had the ultimate choice in him specifically, but it was Alfred who had forced his son to hire a new security consultant. And when Alfred had asked for his presence, he couldn’t well say no. 

The interview had been dull; bullet point soundbites and bland, guiding questions and everything that James had hated about politics all his life and everything he had thought politics could ever be before he had met Thomas. And then the interviewer played a clip of Thomas giving a speech at a conference for housing refugees, and the Earl had almost rolled his eyes. “My son, I’m sure, has good intentions,” he started and the condescension had been fairly dripping off his words. “But he is a fool, and he doesn’t understand how the world works.”

And James can’t explain where it comes from, if he has simply been emboldened by his time with Thomas, or if he has been slowly building to an explosion from _weeks_ of having to listen to peoples weak, pandering statements. But his words build like a giant bubble in his chest that all of a sudden pops, as though it was touched by one of the Earl’s pointed barbs about his son. “I believe he understands more than you, My Lord.” He says before he can stop himself, and over the frantic beating of his own heart he can hear the cameras all swing to face him. “He is a good man, and he chooses to see the good in people. Which is a credit to his own character, because I cannot say that he learnt that compassion from you.”

He doesn’t even really remember saying it, and he certainly doesn’t remember what happened next, which is why he has to watch it slumped over the table in his apartment. On the screen Alfred Hamilton’s face turns an interesting shade of purple and dark red, and he opens and closes his mouth soundlessly a couple of times. He doesn’t get a word out before there’s a knock on his door, and James leaves the video playing on his table and shuffles over to open it. 

It’s Thomas. He’s clearly come from somewhere important. He’s dressed well, a shirt and a tie, but he’s a little dishevelled around the edges, tie slightly crooked and loose, shirt pulling out of its tuck. His hair looks like he ran his hands through it more than once. He came in a rush, and he fidgeted all the way over. 

James is too preoccupied taking in his appearance to listen to his words straight away. “I’m so sorry” he catches, and he’s so genuinely baffled by what Thomas could be apologising for that his attention is grabbed. “I tried to keep the video out of the news.”

He pauses as if to hear the clip playing on James’ phone inside the room, but if that was the case he would have been unlucky, the news cycling too fast for any real analysis. Either way, James interrupts before Thomas can speak again. “Don’t apologise.” He says, and for once it’s easy to look up into Thomas’ eyes. “I meant it. I’m proud to be seen defending you.”

“ _James_ …” Thomas says, trailing off like he can’t think of what to say next. James hadn’t thought he could ever be lost for words, but his lips moves silently in a far more pleasant way than his father’s had on his phone screen. They stop, and his mouth settles into a firm, determined line. He lifts one hand almost to shoulder height, but he pauses just before it makes contact with James’ cheek as if waiting for permission. 

James leans into it, doesn’t even think. It feels inevitable. Thomas’ eyes flutter, just a little, and James’ heartbeat goes wild, thumping in his chest, his ears, his throat. Thomas’ thumb curls just under his jaw, and he tilts his face up even as he leans down himself. The whole scene moves as if through treacle, slow, deliberate. But even so, it’s still a surprise when Thomas kisses him. 

And James hadn’t even known that that he had wanted this, that he _could_ want this, until right now. But _God_. He does. 

********************

Everything changes, and nothing changes. It’s a cliché, but it’s true. He maintains his apartment, but solely for propriety’s sake - he spends almost all of his time with Thomas; in his office, at his meetings and speeches, in his bed. Thomas has two more cigar burns on his left shoulder-blade, and James had cursed Alfred Hamilton, had wished he had exposed the man for what he was, as he had run his fingers over the raised skin. The anger settles like a lead ball in his gut, but Thomas has always been able to read him, and he distracts him throughly. 

Miranda too seems to know what he wants before he does, because she stops inviting him to come to bed with her. She still joins them at official functions and at meals, but at the end of them she asks if James would perhaps join her in the gardens the next day. It becomes the thing they share, rather than a bed. James is glad, though sometimes he misses their particular intimacy. He isn’t even exactly sure how he’d react if she had asked, because he enjoyed their time together. 

But he loves Thomas. He knows it, with a clear, easy, _terrifying_ certainty. He knows it, even though he has never felt like this before. Like the world has _changed_ , irrevocably. Like everything he knew about himself was wrong, because Thomas has shown him a new way to see. He had been so sure that the world was designed to destroy people like Thomas; the optimists, the believers. That reality would wear them down. But Thomas doesn’t allow the world to break him. He shapes it, his words and his hope shedding light on another way to be. And James believes it. The bills Thomas drafts, they’re radical. They will fundamentally change the way that people live. And James _believes_ they will pass, because they are _right_. 

Thomas _thrives_ , and James backs him every step of the way. 

********************

Enchanted by Thomas’ speech as he had been, James doesn’t notice the man in the crowd draw his gun until after he has fired it. But he hears the shot, and he sees Thomas go down behind the podium. For a few frozen seconds, James isn’t sure what’s happening. And then the screaming starts, the crowd pushes in on all sides, paramedics rush to the podium. He tries to follow them, but a hand on his arm stops him. 

He turns to shove the other person away. But it’s Miranda, her face a chalky, bloodless white, her eyes startlingly bright and wild. She tightens her grip on his arm. “We have to go.” She says, and pulls. 

James is so stunned he stumbles a few steps after her before catching himself. “No.” He says. “No, I–“ He takes a step back towards the stage. There are three paramedics crouched down behind the podium. Two security guards are all there is to hold back the jostling crowd. One pushes a woman who tries to climb up onstage, but the press is so close and dense that she almost bounces right back. Miranda lurches forward with him, but she plants her feet. Her grip on his arm is so tight now that he can feel her nails threatening to break skin even through his shirt.

“There’s nothing you can do but get in the way.” She tells him, and it feels a little like he’s been slapped. He almost trips over his own feet. “You’re not a doctor,” she continues, a little more kindly. “He’s with the best people he can be with at the moment.” James shakes his head violently, his words deserting him. _He’s_ the best person for Thomas to be with. As long as they’re together, nothing bad can happen. Miranda tugs again. “We need to leave now, while we still can.” Her voice catches, and James glances at her. She’s crying silently, even while her words hardly waver. “We need to get to the hospital before some vulture tries to interview us. We need to be there, just in case–“ 

She doesn’t finish her thought, but she punctuates it with another pull, and this time James follows her all the way to a waiting car. 

********************

He never asked Thomas to divorce Miranda and marry him instead. Not because he thought he would say no, but because he was sure that he would say yes.

It would have hurt all of them, ended the easy equilibrium that they achieved.

But even so. Some part of James wanted it.

********************

James had spent plenty of time in hospitals as a kid while his grandfather was dying. He’s sure that that the machines and computers in the rooms have changed since then, but the waiting rooms have not. Thomas does’t believe in contributing to a private health system that is rapidly starving the public one. It’s another of the high-minded ideals that James loves him for, but right now he wishes it wasn’t the case, wishes that he doesn’t have to look around the same kind of waiting room he knows so well; the same off-white walls, the same old magazines, the same tiny television hanging from the ceiling in the corner. James has never been claustrophobic, but even so he feels almost like the room could crush him at any moment, his breaths coming in short and sharp. 

In the seat next to him, Miranda appears to be feeling much the same way, although she has substituted his difficulties breathing with incessant fidgeting. She can’t seem to decide what to do with her hands; tapping aimlessly on her phone before putting it down again, opening the magazines to random pages and closing them, seemingly without reading anything, squeezing James’ hand and letting it go quickly. 

Other than the two of them the room is empty, even in the middle of the day. Thomas may not have private healthcare, but a security detail can still clear a room, and in Thomas’ absence Miranda is their priority. Even the receptionist had cleared out, muttering something about being needed elsewhere. It’s so quiet that Miranda’s little gasp cuts through the air like a knife, and James’ eyes flick over first to her, and then follow her gaze to the TV.

There is a picture of the two of them leaving the rally, Miranda in front and James staring blankly ahead. He doesn’t remember the walk from near the stage to the car, but at some point Miranda’s grip must have slid down his arm, because she is leading him by the hand. Across the bottom of the screen, the banner reads ‘ _Fleeing the Scene?_ ’, and then underneath in smaller letters ‘ _Secret Lovers’ Conspiracy?_?. James learnt to read lips while he was in navy intelligence, but he doesn’t have to to be able to know that the lady on the screen is suggesting that he and Miranda had Thomas killed so that they could be together.

Miranda reaches for his hand again, and then pauses conspicuously. “We need to leave.”

James shakes his head, but he doesn’t look away from the screen. It’s getting harder to follow what the presenter is saying, even though she hasn’t changed anything about the way she’s speaking. It’s almost like the TV is losing it’s focus, the presenter’s face becoming blurred and then snapping back into sharp relief. She says something about Miranda’s _reputation_ , and the way she leans on the word is clear in the twitch of her eyebrows.

“Please, James.” Miranda says, and her voice trembles just a little. “We have to leave now.”

James wants to shake his head again, afraid that he’ll try to speak and no words will come out. But that’s childish, and he forces himself to say something. “I won’t leave Thomas.” His voice is barely at a croak. “Someone needs to be here when he wakes up.”

This time Miranda does grab his arm, and her hand shakes far more violently than anything else about her betrays. “There’s nothing that you or I can do here that the doctor’s can’t.” She says. “And if Thomas wakes, he would prefer it if we weren’t both in prison.” She pauses. “Or dead.” She finishes, almost like an afterthought. 

James knows that she’s right, and he hates it. He hates how much more clear-headed she is than him at the moment. He is the one with the crisis training, he should be supporting her, being strong for her. But when she helps him to his feet, he can barely walk without leaning on her.

********************

They’re trying to organise a flight out of the country when Peter calls. Miranda has her laptop balanced on her lower legs that are stretched out on a second seat in front of her, and she’s sending out emails at a steady rate of one every two minutes. James has managed three in half an hour, and he’s gotten no replies. Even if he knew more people, he doubts they’d be the kind who would have access to a private plane or a good place to launch a boat from. Instead, he’s refreshing Twitter, using the distinctive _whoosh_ sound that Miranda’s laptop makes when she sends an email has a good judge of how often he should check and still appear in control of himself. 

When the phone rings, James hesitates just for a second before lunging for it. Miranda picks it up first. It’s Peter calling, James saw the contact photo - Peter and his young daughter, their faces squished together so they both fit on the screen, both sporting ridiculously exaggerated smiles. 

Mirada puts him on speakerphone. Peter asks how they are, where they are, are they safe and alone? He talks in a stream, a high-pitched babble, nerves and fear and anger all rolled into one, and James doesn’t remember hearing him say that Thomas is dead, but he knows that he did - and he _is_ \- anyway.

When Miranda hangs up the phone she goes back to trying to arrange a flight, silent even through her tears and her shaking shoulders. And James can do nothing but howl.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly who even needs plot when you have **Character Studies**???

The payment trail that leads back to the assassin is simple enough to follow, once he figures out the patterns. And James does so easily, as if the path had been signposted for him. He can’t help but wonder if perhaps Alfred Hamilton wanted to be found out; because he was feeling guilty, perhaps. Or more likely he was simply gloating, the future if his family name out of the hands of the son who defied him, and back into his own. James can’t help but notice with a dark sort of humour that Lord Hamilton suddenly has a new, young wife. 

He also doesn’t fail to notice the other, far better hidden payment trails that lead back to the Maria Alkyne cartel. 

When the reports of the Earl’s connections to smuggling start circling he feels the flush of victory, and when the man is found dead less than a week later, there is no guilt. He would gave killed him himself, if it was easier to get away with, and he wasn’t on the other side of the world. As it stands, he tells himself that he has to stay to look after Miranda, and that he will feel better now that Thomas has been avenged. That he will be able to find peace. 

But a few days pass and the righteousness fades and James is left with nothing but an empty, dark void in his chest, sucking away at his thoughts and his time. And he has no anger with which to plug it. 

So instead he tries to drown it - the whimpering, lonely beast in his chest - in some little hole-in-the-wall pub, and he’s greeted by guarded looks and a stiff drink and a young woman who positively radiates all of the fury he had lost. 

********************

Miranda is desperately unhappy. She doesn’t tell him so, but he’d have to be blind not to see it. And even then, he’d sense her sadness just oozing off of her. It’s losing Thomas - losing her husband and the man she had loved since she was a child - but it’s also losing her home. This is the first time she has ever left England. Thomas was always too busy with work to travel much, but the money had always been there if Miranda wanted to take a holiday. But she had been comfortable, felt safe there, and now that has been ripped away from her and she mourns for it all.

She is also unhappy when he returns drunk every night, and she puts just as little effort into hiding that. He wakes to find her sitting on a chair she pulled up beside his bed. And he is still tipsy enough from the night before that he can feel the inevitability of his hangover, though not yet its pain. But the look on Miranda’s face almost feels like a physical blow anyway. It’s not anger or even frustration. It’s disappointment. Even worse, it’s _pity_. She sighs. “You can’t keep doing this, James.” She says, and James shuts his eyes as if if he can’t see her, then he doesn’t have to hear her; like a child. “I know how much you lo–“ Her words catch in her throat. “I know how much _this_ hurts. It– It hurts. Sometimes I think–. But no. You can’t keep living like this, just like I can’t keep–. You need to stop drinking.”

James has heard Miranda swear at Lords and politicians and men at the football alike. He’s never heard her be hesitant before. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s also _infuriating_. How dare she tell him how to live his life? How dare she tell him how to grieve? How dare she finally show her pain, after he has spent so long thrusting his out into the world, an open wound with every nerve ending exposed. Trying to catch ahold of his emotions is like trying to hold water in his cupped hands. 

“Maybe you can just shut yourself down and not feel anything, but I can’t.” He says, and it’s barely above a hiss but he can feel it about to explode out of him. His next words are much louder. “Hell, maybe you’re glad he’s gone. You were always _jealous_ , weren’t you, that I loved Thomas–“ James wants to say “more”, but that isn’t wholly accurate. Because sometimes it was _easier_ to love Miranda. Safe. Less terrifying and all-consuming. He settles on “–differently than I loved you.” And that is true. None of this would have happened if he could have loved Miranda the way that a man is supposed to love a woman. Instead he had loved Thomas, and it had killed them both, truly. But it was Miranda’s ideas that had originally consumed and rebirthed him. She was passionate but sensible, and she had warned them that something would happen to Thomas if they continued to push. But Thomas had built a dream around them as solid as reality, and in it James had felt powerful and protected and free.

Miranda doesn’t slap him, and he can barely stand it because he would have hit someone for being so deliberately cruel to him. But she is so much stronger than he is.

Even so, something breaks between them.

“Thomas would be ashamed of us.” She says, and her voice is flat, almost a whisper.

“Of me.” James replies.

Miranda shakes her head. “Of the both of us.” And she leans across and down and kisses him.

He doesn’t stop to think about it. They strip off almost in a frenzy, though not one born of passion. Because it’s easier, _so much easier_ than talking. And he’s not thinking of her and she’s not thinking of him, James can see that in the way Miranda isn’t even looking at him. She and Thomas so rarely touched sexually, and James can't help but wonder even as he digs his fingers into her hips, what night she is imagining. Perhaps their wedding night, and that only drives him faster, harder, _angrier_ , because he will never have any memory like that of Thomas. Miranda was his _wife_ , and they will be immortalised in photographs together forever. And James will be lucky to be in the background of time of them. He will fade away, and no one will know how much he and Thomas loved each other. It isn’t fair. It isn’t _right_.

When she is finished, Miranda collapses on top of him, her face pressed into his shoulder as she sobs. James pats her back absentmindedly while it shakes, but for the first time since Thomas was taken from them, he doesn’t cry along with her. He lets his pain and his rage consume him, he lets James McGraw go, a man who had loved and lost and _loved_ , and he lets his heart turn cold and hard as _sharp_. 

********************

Hal had been one of his black market contacts, back when Flint was in the navy. He had a different name, a different _life_ then, but he remembers liking Hal, and he remembers the man being good for a drink. He still owns the same shop he had all those years ago, down a back alley and seeming somehow squashed between the buildings around it, bars in the windows the only visible security. The _actual_ security measures are a lot more sophisticated than the location would suggest, but in a past life Flint had been here more than his fair share of times and he knows how to get around them. It takes almost half an hour to disable all of the alarms, but Flint eventually finds his way inside and goes ruffling through the draws behind the counter for a bottle. He rarely drinks now, he keeps his promises and he made one to Miranda, but it would send the wrong message if was found sitting in the dark of the shop and doing nothing with his time. He doesn’t want Hal to fear for his life when he sees him. 

It's not Hal that comes the door eventually, however. It’s a kid. He’s taller than Flint and solidly built for his age, but he can’t be any older than his mid teens. And he has a gun out of his waistband and pointing at Flint before he can even say hello. 

Flint raises his hands slowly, palms facing out, and they stay frozen in that tableau until the door swings open again behind the kid, and this time it _is_ Hal. He doesn’t quite stumble into the back of the kid, but he does stop abruptly and look between the two of them. After a few seconds, he steps around the kid. “Put the gun away, Billy.” He says as he crosses the distance to Flint. Billy doesn't put the gun away, even when Hal steps between them and makes a gesture to initiate a hug, and Flint appreciates that even as he keeps both eyes on him over Hal’s shoulder. “It’s been some time, James.”

“Flint.” He says, and he doesn’t know how much news Hal is getting from home, but he doesn’t hesitate when they hug. So either not a lot, or word of what _actually_ happened that day has started to spread. 

Hal pulls back, but he keeps his hands on his shoulders. “Flint.” He parrots. “What brings you here?”

Over Hal’s shoulder, Flint can see that Billy’s attention has wavered slightly, his gun no longer pointing directly at his head, but instead a little over to the left. If he really was the killer that the media had tried to paint him as, he could easily pull Hal over into the path of a bullet and get out before Billy recovered from killing him. James would never have thought like that. It wasn’t _honourable_. 

“I need to buy a laptop.”

********************

Flint doesn’t know what to think of Eleanor at first, only that she reminds him of himself - so angry, so sure of what she wants but so unsure of how to get it, and so afraid that it would all be taken away because of who she is and how she was born. He wonders if she will ever find what he did, if she will ever find her own Thomas. And if she did, would she even want it? She doesn’t seem to seek out people who want to understand her at all. Maybe she doesn’t even recognise it - he hadn’t, after all - but Max only wants her sweetness, and Vane her fury. 

Flint sees it all so clearly from the little booth he’s claimed as his own ever since he started coming to the pub that she runs in her father’s name. One day Max will try to get her to leave so that they can live a more beautiful life together, or Vane will try to pull her deeper into the criminal activity she facilitates; and she will say no. Flint can’t imagine a scenario where it all ends well. He’d offer her some advice, but he’s pretty sure he cried about Thomas in front of her more than once when he was drunk, so he doubts that she’d take it. 

If he did unravel on her, she’s been kind enough not to mention it to anyone that she’s introduced him to. Flint had been worried he wouldn’t be able to fall in with the kind of people that he needs too, given how relatively recently he left the navy. But Eleanor vouches for him and that is good enough for everyone else. They don’t _like_ him. Vane doesn’t seem to really feel anything other than love or hate and he definitely doesn’t love him, Jack and Anne are too wrapped up in their own thing to notice much of anyone else other than occasionally Vane, and Max mostly acts like she’s anywhere but the rundown pub where she is . But they’re willing to let him into their network, and they don’t look at him with any pity.

So Flint doesn’t know what to think about Eleanor and her pub and her criminal contacts, but what he does know is that her father doesn’t deserve her. 

********************

Silver makes the worst cocktails Flint has ever tasted, and Miranda once brought him to a bar that had a half a star rating on Yelp. He brings one over while he and Anne are trying to crack the password to a bank account. Flint doesn’t remember who it belongs to, only that the man makes more money in a couple of days than Flint has ever had in his life. This is the kind of work they do; Anne, Jack and Vane. Stealing from the rich and giving back partially to themselves, but also to the charities for people who have been hurt by corporate greed, or the lawyers to defend them. He’d almost say it is noble, good work. But Flint is here for bigger fish. Government fish. They voted down Thomas’ proposals to help people, and they allowed Flint to be framed for his assassination. He owes it to them, to bring them down.

So Silver brings a drink over to their booth in the corner, some neon blue monstrosity that is certainly not coloured by anything natural, and Anne doesn’t even look up to acknowledge him. Flint likes Anne a lot. But the bartender doesn’t walk away, and Flint can just _feel_ him standing there, waiting.

He doesn’t notice Anne’s small smirk until it’s too late. He doesn’t spit the drink out because his laptop would be in the firing range, but it takes a conscious effort to get it down. It makes no logical sense that a combination of alcohols can taste so foul. “How hasn’t Eleanor fired you yet?” He asks, and across from him Anne breathes a laugh out of her nose. 

“She says my pretty face brings in the customers.” Silver replies, and Flint is surprised enough by the response that he looks up from his work. She’s probably right, but he keeps the observation to himself. 

“It’s not enough to keep me around.” He says instead, and this time Anne’s laughter is much more distinct. “Don’t bring me a drink again.” He’s glad, at least, to have an excuse to not have alcohol.

Flint turns back to his laptop. After a time he sips at the drink absentmindedly, and immediately regrets it. He doesn’t understand why; why Silver made the drink, why he bought it over to him, why it _tastes so bad_. 

He mentions it to Miranda that night. When they were home in England, they would always sit close to each other. Miranda had always been casually affectionate in the way she touched. Before they started sleeping together and even after they stopped they would sit as close as possible, knees or shoulders or feet pressed pressed together. Now they sit as far from each other as the table allows. 

“Maybe he was flirting with you.” She says, and before it would have been light and teasing. Now it comes across as hollow, as something _real_ people do, not them. And he can tell she’s trying, but Flint can’t bring himself to play along. 

********************

Flint may have been out of the navy for some time, but he still knows people who aren’t, and they have emails that will always have back doors for people that know where to look. And from there he can keep pushing into other branches of the military and then finally into the government itself. He’s building a list; of intelligence agents, of people undercover, of anyone whose exposure would ruin the government’s credibility and diplomatic relations. He’s keeping it quiet, keeping it to himself, which is why it’s slow going. And in the meantime he helps to funnel money out of the bank accounts of someone who is renting to low income people at exorbitant prices, while all the while facilitating the drug trade that keeps them poor. 

But Hal catches onto him, and he threatens to turn him in. Flint doesn’t know how he finds out, because he checked his laptop for bugs and spywear. Maybe Hal knows some tricks that Flint doesn’t. Or maybe Hal just knows him.

Flint spent a fair amount of time with him in his previous life. Hal just wants everyone who isn’t already a multimillionaire to have more than they do. Especially himself. And he approves of Flint stealing from the rich, but he doesn’t approve of his extra-curricular activities. His business relies on a very delicate ecosystem, and Flint wants to knock it all down. Hal sells secrets, but he can’t do that if there are no secrets to tell. He’s a good man, and he’s just trying to do his job.

And Flint tells _everyone_ that. It’s only hours later that Hal is found dead in his shop.

Two days later, he gets an email. Flint doesn't recognise the address and it isn’t signed, but it doesn’t need to be. “I won’t make you regret what you did.” It says. “I will make you regret that you were ever born.”

“Kid.” Flint writes back. “I already do.”

********************

They hide behind their handles and their avatars because none of them have a face that is easy to forget. Even Eleanor - who brokers their deals with outside parties and runs a largely-legitimate pub - has had her likeness scrubbed online, despite the fact that she’d likely make many more sales if people could see it. She is a singularly beautiful woman. As are Max and Anne. He is struck by Vane and Silver, and even Jack has a certain charm in his own way. But Flint had wanted no one but Thomas when he had him, and he has felt nothing since his death. 

Very occasionally, he and Miranda will still have sex. She needs to be touched, and he wants to be kind to her, even if he doesn’t really remember how to be. It’s easy, but they were always easy. He can lie back and when he touches her he can remind himself that these were places that Thomas touched, and in some ways it feels like he he still has a connection to him.

He’s using her. It’s cruel, Flint knows. But he knows that she is using him too, that when he touches her she thinks that they are the same hands that touched Thomas. So at least it is a mutual cruelty, and that is a comfort in its own way. 

********************

Flint has always been aware that there are rumours - conspiracy theories even - that Thomas is not dead, that instead he was spirited way to some secret location. He was a popular politician, it’s no surprise that his voters would concoct a far-flung theory that he was being kept somewhere against his will. Flint would have done the same thing, hoped against hope, dedicated his life to even the tiniest scraps of circumstantial evidence. 

It’s why he never let himself even type Thomas’ name into a search bar.

And then Miranda is killed, and nothing really matters anymore. 

He spends the next week in a haze. It’s not even alcohol; he doesn’t have a drop of it. He just feels like he’s disconnected. 

It’s worse than losing Thomas, somehow. At least then he had Miranda to comfort him, and Miranda to direct some of the blame at for leaving him in that hospital. At least then, he had _Miranda_. She had been the first; to reach out, to ask to get to know him. The first he had been vulnerable and open with. And now that whole life he built in London is _gone_. 

And thinking about that life, about Thomas, gets him down in front of his laptop and for the first time in years, searching for him online.

The search is returned as blocked. 

Even in death, Miranda is protecting him. 

********************

He _ruins_ Peter. He can’t kill him. Going to prison was never a part of his plan. But there are other ways to end someone’s life. 

Peter sold Thomas’ life for a vote, turned a blind eye to the gunman that he knew would be at that rally that day. And he had stood there frozen when his bodyguard had killed Miranda for nothing more than some words shouted in anger. Flint wants him _dead_ , but he settles for siphoning all of his money out of his accounts, and exposing his part in Thomas’ death online, posting the recording of the accusations that Miranda had made the day she was gunned down just like her husband.

And when Peter’s daughter Abigail runs away from her father and his legacy, Flint knows just who to send to make contact with her. He remembers she had been a smart girl, and with all her father’s old money suddenly available to her, she may yet become a very valuable asset. 

********************

Sliver is different. Flint wants– he doesn't really know what he wants. But since Miranda’s death, he needs someone _else_. He had been so lonely for so long, and Thomas and Miranda had shown him that he didn’t have to be, and now he doesn’t know how to go back to being that way, _surviving_ that way. 

Flint needs a partner. And he doesn’t _want_ it to be Silver, but Silver is the one who is there. Vane hates him. Max has been pulled into the bubble that Jack and Anne live in. Eleanor is his favourite, but she has two business’ to run and she doesn’t have the time to give him. But Silver does. Silver sits with him while he’s working and asks questions, and after a while Flint starts teaching him some little tricks to hack into a bank account or an email. The most you can take in one transaction before a bank will tell someone that they’re being defrauded. He helps him set up his own presence online. It feels like he’s being useful again, it feels _good_ , and Flint clings desperately to that feeling.

And soon enough, Flint starts telling him things. Just observations about the people around them at first, and then about the navy and his past and _everything_. He notes almost vaguely that Silver tells him nothing about his own life, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s sick of being a closed book, of holding himself apart from everyone. That’s what he did _before_ , before he became a real person, and he doesn’t want to go back to that. Not entirely.

Eventually he tells Silver about Thomas. About falling in love, and having that taken from him. About his plan for revenge. 

And when Silver tells him quietly, calmly, _sadly_ , that it’s his fault that Miranda and Thomas are dead because he did nothing to stop them, Flint knows it’s true. He was vulnerable, and Silver saw the truth in him. But he’s not going to let it happen again 

********************

Flint remembers Mr Scott’s name from his time in the navy, and his face from his time with Thomas. Both knew him as a people smuggler, but the latter viewed him far more positively than the former.

Flint _didn’t_ know Mr Scott was working for Eleanor Guthrie, and he wonders how that arrangement came about. He had always struck him as, if not an independent operator, then the one in charge of the operation. Until he hears about Madi, and it all makes sense. Flint is sure Eleanor isn’t the type to threaten to reveal the location of someone’s daughter to the authorities in order to get them to work with them, but he is equally sure that Eleanor’s father is. 

Madi visits her father almost five months after Miranda’s murder. She is young and small, but he recognises something in her, a _fury_. A casual disregard for her own safety in the work that she does creating false lives to help people sneak across international borders. A burning hatred of the political systems that have kept people marginalised and afraid that could never be turned back down to even a simmer. Flint has kept his real goals a secret because he isn’t sure how far the others are willing to go, how much they’re wiling to sacrifice. But with Madi, he is completely sure. And she agrees to help him without hesitation. 

Flint recognises something in Silver as well; the look on his face when he first lays eyes on Madi. 

********************

Madi has authorities watching her on all sides and a charity that she had always planned to use as a distraction from her more illegal activities. And Eleanor has been talking of going legitimate of late. It’s a match that was fated to happen. 

Flint is sitting alone and tapping idly at his laptop when Eleanor approaches him. Time was that he would have been with Silver, but Silver has started following Madi around like a lost puppy. Flint recognises that impulse intimately. 

Eleanor sinks down beside him in silence, and she doesn’t say anything for quite a few seconds. “That’s only going to end in tears.” She says eventually, and nods over to where Jack, Anne and Max are all bent over their drinks together, Max’s hand on Anne’s thigh and Anne’s shoulder pressed tight to Jack’s. Personally Flint doesn’t really pay much attention to them, but they seem happy enough. He can’t help but wonder about Eleanor’s reason for her statement, whether it’s about Max. He almost wants to ask about her, and about Vane too. Flint hasn’t seem him for almost two weeks, since he and Eleanor argued and Vane stormed out, cursing all the way. He can’t say it’s not pleasant, not having him around. But he does wonder if he should worry, for Eleanor’s sake. Either way, he doesn’t want to pry, so he says nothing. 

Eleanor fidgets in her seat opposite him, taps on the table a couple of times, kicks his leg lightly where her own feet swing under the table. “I’ve never given a speech before.” She says, and Flint can tell that she’s aiming for casual but she falls far short.

Momentarily, Flint has the absurd urge to reach out and take her hand, but he tamps that down and keeps them resting on the keyboard, safe. “You give more of them than you think you do.”

Eleanor smiles, wobbly around the edges. “Not like this.” She replies. “I need your advice." 

Flint thinks on it for a moment. There’s a way he could help her, a place he could go back to when he knew all the right words. He and Thomas would work on Thomas’ speeches together. But he can’t. He’s not strong enough. He shakes his head. “This is up to you.” He says, and Eleanor barely reacts, just the slightest tightening around her eyes, but he can tell that she’s hurt. “Just know that whatever you do, I back your decision, and I am proud of you.”

Eleanor blinks at him a few times, and then she is the one to take his hand, “Thank you.”

Flint stands up again after a moment. He looks back down at Eleanor but she is still staring at her hand lying on the table, deep in thought. He claps her on the shoulder as he walks away to look for Madi.

********************

Flint finds her in the back room with Silver. They’re sitting together but not talking, Madi’s fingers flying over her phone and Silver reading a book. It’s an almost domestic scene, and Flint feels the white-hot stab of something that may be jealousy pierce his lungs and heart; although who or even _what_ he’s jealous of, he’s not sure. Silver has his prosthetic propped up against the table leg. He rarely wears it when he’s not behind the bar and he doesn’t need both his hands free, preferring to get around on crutches. He says it itches, sometimes, or it feels like the prosthetic is crushing a phantom limb and he can’t sit still while he’s wearing it. But Flint has seen Madi put her hand where metal meets flesh and Silver had calmed. He remembers all of the times Miranda had taken his hand or Thomas had clapped him on the shoulder and it had felt like he was being grounded, and he feels a yawning emptiness in his gut, like he is starving. 

“Congratulations.” He says to Madi, and she near smirks at him. “I wish I could be there to see it, but I’m meeting an old informer.” Silver looks at him with his eyes wide, but Madi’s smile grows. 

“When you’re fighting a battle on two fronts, sometimes you have to split your forces.” She says. “Get those names, James Flint. End your government.”

********************

When Flint returns to the pub two days later, there is nothing left but ashes. Eleanor, they tell him, is dead. And Madi is gone. 

********************

The group the has Madi contacts them a week later. Flint has never heard of them, but they demand the list of undercover agents for her return. They’re clearly not English, and Flint can’t imagine they want the list for any other reason than to kill the people on it. He’s not necessarily opposed to that. He had figured that at least a few would wind up dead when he exposed them. But he wants it done loudly, visibly, _humiliatingly_. A diplomatic nightmare for a complicit government. He doesn’t want shady assassinations, and he can’t trust that this group won’t do that. 

He tells Silver as much when the other man brings him their ransom demands, and he can tell Silver does not accept it. Flint had wanted to believe so badly that he and Silver were of one mind that he had ignored all the ways that they were different. “We can’t do it.” He says, and Silver shakes his head. 

“They’ll kill her.” 

“Madi was always prepared to die for a cause. You know that.” And it’s hard but it’s true, Madi always put victory above herself. If Thomas had been Jame McGraw’s other half, then perhaps Madi is Flint’s.

Silver shakes his head again. “She will forgive me.” He pauses. “And even if she doesn’t, at least she will be alive to be angry.” It hits Flint then that Silver doesn’t understand; what they do, why they fight. He doesn’t understand that they are prepared to put this above their own life. He doesn’t understand that Madi will not forgive him, not for ruining their chance to potentially change the world.

“I won’t tell you the password.”

Silver smirks, and for the first time ever Flint sees him as his own internet handle; as Long John Silver. “You’ve told me everything else about you. You think I couldn’t figure it out?”

“I won’t let you do it.” Flint says. He had ignored everyone and everything else for love, once. He won’t let Silver do the same, even if it is the one he loves that he’s ignoring. 

“It’s already done.” Silver almost looks sad and there’s a hint of desperation in his eyes, but mostly he just seems resigned. He stands in front of Flint and tells him he has abandoned their plan and there is no hint of a tremor about him. No hesitation. “They’re already on their way.”

“People will die.” Flint says. “Can you live with that?” He can feel himself scrabbling, trying desperately to hold together the identity and purpose that he built to stop himself from falling to pieces, protecting the still raw and bleeding wounds of his heart.

“I also told a friend in the House of Commons.” He replies. “So you had better leave.”

And then Silver whispers a secret to him that cracks Flint apart.

********************

James does’t know how much about Alfred Hamilton’s involvement in his son’s supposed death made it into the mainstream media, but Hennessey would have heard at least some of the rumours, and James just has to trust that he has looked into them and figured everything out. His future kind of depends on it.

He hates the idea of being a part of the navy again. He had left even before he had known just how sad he had been, and the fear that he’ll slip so easily back into that place if he’s back in that environment is just barely beneath the surface. But he’s been in a far darker place so recently, and he begs Hennassey to get him a posting on the Savannah. 

She is a prison ship, the kind that officially doesn’t exist, where political dissidents are sent floating in the ocean and far, far away from the rest of the world. Thomas could hardly have been considered a dissident - a little more liberal at most inside politics to be sure, but still largely working within its rules - so it must have been his father that sent him there. And even after that treachery was revealed, it was not realistic for them to set him free. 

She sits low in the water to make her more difficult to track, and she could likely be mistaken for an aircraft carrier if not given a second glance, her deck flat and mostly featureless. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t guess that down below the ocean she hides people that the government or the rich want to be gone. 

James steps off the helicopter and onto the deck, and the solid clunk his boots make sound like finality, a full stop in his story. There are only a few people on deck to greet him and none of them are Thomas, but he has to believe he is here. If he isn’t, if this is just Silver’s sick idea of a joke or of revenge, at least the ocean is right there.

The captain gives him a tour of the ship, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to walk down the row and see into the cells, only giving a cursory look as they walk past to the bathroom and the CCTV control room. James scans the screens as quickly as he can, and for just a split second he gets a view of Thomas. It’s just a glimpse - Thomas’ hair isn’t quite as blond as he remembers it, and he hunches over far more than he used to - and he forces himself to look away and let his gaze slide passed, but even still it feels like his heart just _stops_.

They move out of the room almost as quickly as they had moved in, but James has seen Thomas. He’s _alive_ , and everything is okay. Everything else is just white noise. 

********************

He floats through the rest of the day like it’s a dream, experiences it in fits and starts as he moves from place to place on the ship without really knowing how he gets between them. He thinks about Thomas, about how he’s going to see him, about how he’s going to get them away from here, about what Thomas will think of _him_ when he sees him. Never what he will think of Thomas when he sees him in the flesh. James shut himself away the day that he became Flint, and his own feelings are as fresh as they were that day. 

When the sun finally sets he volunteers for one of the first shifts watching the video monitors. It's already been hours past since the prisoners were sent back to their rooms, but a couple are still awake reading or doing things that aren’t allowed in polite company. James doesn’t seek out Thomas as such, but his eyes gravitate to him immediately. He is asleep, covers pulled right up so little more than his head pops out above them. James watches him sleep for a moment - the covers risking and falling ever so slightly, fingers and facial muscles twitching occasionally - and then he cuts out a few minutes of footage, loops it over the live recording and leaves the room.

He doesn’t run, but he walks quickly and purposefully. If he hesitates even for a second, he’ll convince himself that this isn’t real, that he was turned into the government and is part of some kind of experiment, or that Silver’s betrayal triggered some kind of psychotic break. So James powers forward until he comes to a stop outside Thomas’ door, and he swings it open. There are no locks. Where would anyone escape to?

For a moment, he can only stare. Seeing Thomas on the screen is different than seeing him in the flesh. His hair isn’t quite the colour he remembers it, it’s true, but he is much paler than he had been as well. James can’t how much he hunches while he’s lying down but his face looks thinner, more drawn. How much of the changes are simply the product of age and how many are from something more sinister, James can’t be sure. But he wants to run his fingers over every part of Thomas that is different and every part that is the same, and the urge makes him stagger as he passes through the doorway. Thomas stirs. 

His eyes blink open slowly, and James freezes. Thomas blinks again, hard and deliberate this time, and stares silently back at him. James know he should say something, but the air in his lungs has deserted him, and he stumbles forward instead. Thomas doesn’t get out of the bed, but as James gets closer he pushes himself up into a seated position and a smile spreads over his face. James almost collapses onto the bed, his legs giving put underneath him and Thomas catches him, pulls him close. 

“You’re here.” Thomas says. There’s no doubt in his voice, only wonder. And James still can’t talk with no breath so he buries his face in Thomas’ neck and nods and barely even notices when the tears start until his face starts to feel uncomfortably damp. He opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , just to talk to Thomas again, but Thomas shushes him, barely above a whisper. “It’s ok.” He says, and he kisses him and it’s like James has come _home_. Like Thomas’ mouth on his is forcing air back into his lungs and he can breathe again. He reaches up to cup Thomas’ face, and Thomas pulls him down with his hands on his shoulders until they’re both lying down. He kisses him until his back starts to scream at the angle, and then he pulls back just enough that he can lie down next to him properly, his chin hooked onto his shoulder and one hand not too subtly pressed up against his pulse point. He can feel the residual effects of Thomas’ heart racing against his fingers. 

“I’m going to get you out of here.” James says, finding his voice at last. “We’re going to run away together.”

Thomas stares up at the ceiling, but James can feel him swallow hard. “They will try to hunt us down.”

“Let them come.” James replies. Thomas turns his head and James can see every line on his face; the smile lines that were already developing before he disappeared, and the worry lines between his brows that are a far newer development. He has a small, pale scar high on his right cheekbone that he doesn’t remember, and James instantly feels the pull to reach down and touch Thomas’ other scars, but he can’t tear his free hand away from Thomas’ steadying heartbeat. Thomas tilts his head and kisses him again, slowly and carefully. 

James presses closer, tighter. And he knows that anything could happen; one of his new colleagues could go and check on him and find that he isn’t in the video monitoring room, or someone could check on Thomas for whatever reason and find the two of them together. But in this moment, James truly does not care about anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know how computers work.

**Author's Note:**

> Why doesn’t James get arrested for assaulting what’s-his-face? I don’t know either.


End file.
